


Porridge in a Mug

by allthemchickens



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthemchickens/pseuds/allthemchickens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John decides to make himself some oatmeal, it is Sherlock who enjoys it most (oatmeal/porridge= sexual metaphor? ? this is actually so sexual but I swear it came from the most innocent intentions of my brain. Please enjoy the johnlock kissing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porridge in a Mug

It was a weekend evening in London. That time of day that wasn't afternoon and most definitely not night. It was a weekend, so John had not been to work that day but for some reason, he was feeling drained of energy.

Sherlock's exact whereabouts were unknown, although John assumed he was upstairs. He had heard light footsteps coming from above awhile ago but had not recently heard signs of movement, suggesting Sherlock had now found himself in a seated position.

As John reached for the finished kettle it was time now to make a decision on the kind of tea bag he wanted to reach his mug. The choices were narrowed down to two as the other choices had run out long ago and had yet to be replaced. It was a simple choice that took very little time and thought process to make. Either he reach up and remove a tea bag from the box he usually preferred or reach slightly more to the right to retrieve Sherlock's preferred tea choice. Staring at the options, he used his hand to grab neither option but instead to close the door of the cupboard and in its place open another. The same hand that rejected the tea now reached for a packet of instant porridge. 

He read the instructions on the back as he ripped open the packet at the top. He smiled a tired, half sided smile. When he was a soldier on duty he heard a bunch of Americans refer to the stuff as oatmeal.

When the inexperienced instant oatmeal maker was convinced that he had followed the step by step instructions to the best of his ability, and was satisfied that a mush of what appeared to be oatmeal now sat in the bottom of his mug where once sat dry oats, he decided to join his flatmate upstairs. On his way, almost forgetting a spoon. 

He took himself and his mug into the bedroom and sat on the bed next to Sherlock, their backs touching the headboard and their legs stretched out in front of them. John never fails to notice how much further Sherlock's thin legs stretch past his own, on top of the covers. They stretch out as if trying to touch the other side of the room.

It doesn't take a detective to notice Sherlock is reading something. It appears, by the lack of a creative cover and the way Sherlock is holding it so intently to his eye level, to be a book of non-fiction work.

No matter how many times Sherlock assures him he wouldn't be bothered by Johns interjections as he read, John rarely bothers the man when he reads. Instead, he looks down at the contents of the mug.

Time passes, not a word being said. 

John realizes his mug is emptying quickly and begins now to play with its mushy, remaining contents. 

The first spoonful to enter his unexpecting mouth was delightful in warmth but rather tasteless. He was surprised at the tastelessness. He did not fully enjoy it or did he dislike it.

The first spoonful was rememberable and the rest seemed to blur together as he ate. He couldn't believe how quickly it had disappeared and in a short time, the evidence that he had even made the porridge would be gone.

John looked over and slightly up at Sherlock whose expression had softened in the time passed since John had joined him. John doubts he is even reading now. Although his eyes move convincingly across the pages, John figures he's been trying to deduce what has been finding its way from the mug to John's mouth. He probably hasn't been exposed to porridge since he was a child.

John turns his body slightly towards Sherlock, having had the great idea to feed him. 

He half expects Sherlock to announce something like 'I'm not a child', or a questioning 'What are you doing?'. Instead he watches Sherlocks face change and his body shift slightly away as John reaches the spoonful of mush up to Sherlock's face. 

The spoon connected to John's arm levitates in the air. Awaiting for the detectives mouth to reach it.

John had no intentions of forcing his partner to eat what he had made, but his looking into Sherlock's eyes was hopefully pleading his request for the younger man to try some. 

Sherlock opens his mouth - the same one that hadn't spoken a word in such a long time - and John happily places the tasteless breakfast food into his lovers mouth.

Sherlock chews slowly and swallows before taking the spoon out of the hands of an unsuspecting John. 

Both men are now looking at each other, smiling. Everything being forgotten including the tiredness each of them may have been experiencing.

The seductive look Sherlock was now piercing John with was more charming than sexual, but still took its desired effect. John felt warmth on the inside that no hot beverage or food could provide. 

With the almost emptied mug in one lap and an almost finished book in the other, they indulged in each other's company. Kissing deeply and feverishly with a certain cry for physical attention, until Sherlock stopped it with a light kiss on John's forehead.

"Now it's only fair I get to feed you."

Sherlocks book finds a home on the nearby night table. He now has both the mug and the spoon in his possession and is feeding a quite content, laid back but much more awake John Watson.


End file.
